


Love is a Tragedy

by Intrepid_Inkweaver



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, F/M, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Other, POV Second Person, Past Character Death, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, possible future polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:08:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27450226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intrepid_Inkweaver/pseuds/Intrepid_Inkweaver
Summary: An aging king who has lost those whom he'd loved falls again for he who protects him.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Nonbinary Character, The King/The Protector, The Protector/His Partner





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many other things I should be writing, but instead I start another multi-part short story. Someone please shoot me.

You didn’t see it coming. But then, you don’t see most things coming these days. You don’t see anything outside of your lavish chamber walls, inside of which you long ago tore down the tapestries, ripped the curtains, and not have allowed the servants to change them, no matter how often they ask. You didn’t see it coming, but you would have welcomed it. Welcomed the knives, the poison, whatever else they sought to give you. 

(You had once sought to throw yourself from the towers, but they had locked you into your room and sat with you in shifts until they had been able to talk you gently down. Sometimes you still wish they hadn’t.) 

They don’t get the chance to follow through with their plans because your Protector comes running, and defends you, and pulls you down into the escape tunnels, talking fast as he goes, telling you of all the betrayal from those you’d trusted who no longer trusted you. You don’t blame them.

You pay attention when your Protector tells of the abuses committed by those who were meant to be caring for your kingdom, and the people who have suffered because of their king’s long absence. He speaks of the silence he was forced to before because they had had his love; but now he had been forced to choose--to trust his love to get away and save his king, or to let the king die.

He could not live with the latter, and there is some deep emotion in you at his bravery and his loyalty--not gratefulness, per se, but some affection. He should have chosen to keep his love safe, and you say so, but he shakes his head and says, “She’s more wiley than a cat and stronger than an ox, she’ll know to get away.” There is so much confidence in him that your heart aches to think that he might be wrong. You pray that he is not.

The two of you get out of the castle before your wound stops you. Your hand comes away from your side covered in red and your footsteps falter. Your Protector takes a moment to notice, but he catches you as you fall, possibly chiding you for not telling him you had been wounded. You fall into unconsciousness and wake under the full cover of the night inside some little empty house in the city. You can feel your side has been cleaned and bandaged. Your Protector sits by the window as though he had been keeping watch, but his chin is against his chest and he sleeps. There is no sound outside the dusty house, so you let him.

Getting out of the city is more difficult than getting out of the castle, but the two of you manage it. There are no horses to be had, but you don’t mind the walk. Your protector sings as you go, his eyes and his betrothal ring shining in the sunshine, looking for all the world like a traveling bard rather than the bodyguard of the King.

You don’t wonder what you look like--a vagabond with grey hair and tired, sunken eyes, no doubt. You can’t imagine anyone would ever mistake you for the man you once were. You’re not sure where you’re going--you haven’t had the presence of mind to ask--but for the moment, you are content to be led. 

In the evening by the fire, he asks to see your wound, and you acquiesce, pulling off your shirt so that he can gently pull the bandages away, apologizing when you wince. His fingers are soft and cool against your skin, and his face is shadowed by the firelight and you look away while he examines the cut and then proceeds to wrap it in clean bandages. He puts a hand on your shoulder and tells you he’s done, and he helps you back into your shirts despite your protests that you can manage. You fall asleep to him humming, twisting his ring wistfully on his finger. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been months that you’ve had to keep your silence. Months of betrayal and suffering that the King knows nothing about. You know that he would not have this if he were well. But you fear saying anything, because they know where your partner lives, and they have made veiled threats. She has advised you to tell them to go fuck themselves, she can hadle herself, but still you fear. So you have kept this silence in your chest, though it doesn’t sit comfortably. 

But then you find they intend to kill him. And this, you cannot allow. You run for his chambers, pushing a footman into the wall as you dash helter-skelter through the corridors. The would-be assassin has already shown themself and the King is standing in defiance (or maybe it is defeat). Just as they raise their knife, you barrel into them and manage to turn their own knife against them. The King barely reacts as you, breathing heavily, stand and inform him that he has been betrayed. You take him by the waist and pull him into the escape tunnels that have been kept secret from the rest of the court for centuries. You tell him about the crimes that have been committed in his name, all ending in this betrayal, and you beg forgiveness for your part in it. His face grows heavier as you speak, but he waves off your apology as though the offense was nothing. He tells you you should have chosen to keep your partner safe. You tell him what she had said on the matter, and he gives a tired sort of laugh.

It takes you a moment to notice that the King’s footsteps are no longer behind yours and you turn just in time to see his hand come away from his side covered in blood and his knees buckle. You shoot forward with a panic, frantically asking why he hadn’t said anything, but his consciousness is fading in and out and he has no answer for you. You carry him the rest of the way to the empty, boarded up house at the end of the escape tunnels--he is light, and you can feel his bones defined through his skin. You clean and dress his wound, which should heal up alright as long as it is taken care of. You’ll keep your own eye on it, because it is clear to you that the King does not take care of himself. Even in sleep, he looks troubled, his brow furrowed and the shadows under his eyes made all the more prominent by the odd lighting of the room. You sit near the window, keeping a watch out for anyone that might be looking for the two of you, and to your chagrin, you fall into a slumber and don’t wake till sunrise. 

You expect getting out of the city to be a challenge, but the truth is, it has been so long since the people have seen their king that no one even glances their way, dressed in common clothes as they are, their hoods up to protect against a light sunshower. The road you take is a quiet one, little used, and once the rain stops, the day is beautiful and you sing a prayer of travelling to aid you in the coming days. The King watches you and you think he almost smiles once, but not quite. The sunshine makes him look healthier than he is, and it bounces off of his silver curls in an appealing way. Because of his injury, you stop often, though he claims that he could keep going every time. 

He asks you of your partner, and there is no other subject you prefer speaking of. You sing her name in praise, telling him of her sparkling eyes, her sharp tongue, her quick wit, and her strong arms. You tell him of your coming wedding day, and your excitement. You get a definite smile in response to all this, albeit not without its tinge of sadness. You suddenly regret reminding him of all the things that he has lost, but the sadness is there and gone, and he seems genuinely happy for you as you talk.

You tend to his wound that night, doing your best to cause no more pain than is absolutely necessary. He keeps his eyes on the horizon as you work, his face schooled neutral to show no pain. You help him put his shirt back on even when he complains that he’ll be fine doing it himself. You take the first watch, and you sit, spinning your betrothal ring, thinking about how your partner could make the King laugh so much easier than you could. 


	3. Chapter 3

Days pass, and you still do not ask where you are going, but something about the journey lifts your dark and heavy spirits somewhat, and you find yourself smiling for the first time you don’t know how long. Your Protector smiles too, looking for all the world like he’d just managed some great feat when really all he’d done was tell you some wild stories about his adventures with his soon-to-be spouse. You appreciate it though. You think it’s been a long time since anything like a genuine smile has been bestowed upon you. 

The season has just begun to fall into autumn, and the nights have begun to gain a bite to their chill, so the two of you sleep close together, and when he asks you how you slept in the morning, you don’t mention that you’d fallen asleep counting his breaths and dreamed there were no more when you awoke. You are eating breakfast when you finally ask, “Where are we going?”

He splutters for a moment, nearly choking on his porridge and startling the donkey that you’d sold your ring to buy. “You--you didn’t know? I--I am so sorry, Your Majesty, I thought you knew, I should have stated it outright--”

You wave off his apology, it was hardly his fault--you’d never asked. He tells you that you’re heading to the neighboring kingdom where your cousin, and once close friend, resided, in the hope of gaining aid in restoring you to the throne. It is as solid a plan as any. You haven’t spoken to your cousin in many years, but the last time you had, they were still as you’d remembered--good-hearted and brave. You don’t mention that once the usurpers were dealt with that you had no intention of taking back your throne. You lost the people’s trust long ago and they deserved someone who would care for them and protect them as you had not.

The two of you attract little attention in the harbor town you visit to find passage on a ship, the tavern owner growls at you the same way he did to all the other customers around, though even he isn’t immune to your Protector’s friendly smile. He lets the two of you know of a ship willing to take passengers. At the docks, your Protector looks a little green just from looking at the rolling waves. Under his breath, you hear him mutter, “I hate sea travel.” You can’t relate--the ocean gives you a feeling of euphoria even now. 

He spends the majority of your days at sea heaving up anything he eats, and you sit with him, keeping a damp cloth for his face, and talking idly to distract him as best you can. You insist to the sailors on taking him up on deck at least once a day--the cramped, dark cabin was no good place to be for too long. One night early in the trip, as you are preparing some tea that you hope will soothe his stomach, you catch him watching you and you raise an eyebrow.

“I’ve the feeling you’ve done this before,” he says, and you look down and away, paying closer attention to what you are doing.

“I have,” you state simply, and then you add, “My partner also suffered from seasickness, though not as severely as you. I used to care for them every time we traveled.”

Emotions flit across the Protector’s face at this, though he quickly buries them. You suppress a flinch--you don’t want his pity. “They were very lucky to have you. As am I,” he replies finally, as though he’d had to search for words that wouldn’t cause more scars. There’s a tangle of feelings in your chest and instead of sorting them out, you hand him his cup of tea without looking him in the eye. 

“I don’t know about that,” you say sardonically, “as much as they complained about the taste of the tea, you’d have thought I was poisoning them.”

He laughs. “The taste means it’s working.”

“Indeed.”

After weeks at sea, you are grateful to step onto dry land. Your already unkempt hair and beard have grown longer than you ever allowed them before, and they and your clothes are encrusted in sea-salt. Your Protector looks as though he’d lost a quarter of his weight on the journey, and he all but kisses the ground once he is standing upon it. You don’t blame him--it had been a rough voyage, especially for him. You spend some of the remainder of your money on a room for the night, complete with a bathtub. Who would have thought that regular bathing would be the thing you missed the most in your life as King? 

You insist on your Protector taking the first bath, as he still looks like a stiff breeze might blow him away. While he is in the bath, you catch him sending some glances your way, and he opens his mouth as though to ask something once or twice before you ask, “What is it?”

He clears his throat awkwardly and says hesitantly, “I am sorry to ask, Your Majesty--” you snort--he only calls you that when he has suddenly remembered your station. He continues, ignoring you, “I am sorry to ask, but I cannot reach my back to clean it. Would you mind helping me?” You freeze momentarily and feel your face and ears heat up slightly, but you go around to his back and grab the soap and wash rag from him and wash his back without an outward fuss. 

Later, when the bathtub has been refilled with fresh hot water, you are sitting, trying to comb through your stubborn hair, and he makes a noise in the back of his throat of abject horror. “What, are you trying to rip your hair out?” he asks, and he is certainly not in the “Your Majesty” mood now. “Let me do that.” He comes over and takes the comb from your hands and settles behind you to start carefully working his way through the tangles. The feeling is relaxing, and somehow, it feels more intimate than you washing his back had been earlier. 

“You should leave your hair at this length,” he says, “It looks nice like this.” You’re not sure how to respond to the teasing, so you just let out a little huff and tell yourself steadfastly not to relax too much. 

You’re tired when night comes, though you find it hard to sleep on the bed, having gotten used to the swaying of a hammock. Your Protector has no such trouble. He sleeps deeply, as he hadn’t for the entire voyage, his breathing even and calm. You purposely lay facing away from him, but that doesn’t stop you from counting his breaths until you yourself fall into the realm of sleep.


End file.
